The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (29 page)

was made to answer this inquiry myself. Believing it to be

Sukeena, who has found it dif?cult to sleep since her ordeal with

the police, I approached in my nightgown, not bothering with a

robe.

To my great surprise it was my husband. Further to my surprise

was his apparent sobriety. I had not seen him since before

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tea, and had presumed him to be drinking quite heavily on this

day.

“Ellen,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “the pain is too

great.” I admitted him and we embraced—hugged each other in a

way we have not done in years. I cried. My husband remained

stalwart, though was visibly shaken. As we hugged, his large hands

held me from behind, rubbing me and pressing me to him, and I

sensed immediately he had turned his grief into need—he wanted

physical soothing.

He kissed my neck, my throat, and I confess I shuddered with

apprehension. I, too, needed this expression of love, needed

some escape from my grief. He stopped my heart with his next

words. “Send for her.”

I stammered, unable to draw a breath. There was no question

to whom my husband referred. “John . . . ,” I pleaded, but he

pressed his ?nger to my lips and repeated himself, and I knew

there was to be no arguing.

I approached the door, preparing to summon one of my staff.

I turned to him again, one ?nal attempt to win favor. “John, dear

husband, I offer myself in whatever regard you do wish. You may

dress, undress me. Position me any way you like, ask anything of

me you so choose—but do not ask this. I have yet to inform her of

our . . . negotiations. I dare not tell her this way.”

Clearly, he considered my offer thoughtfully. He touched

me—touched me as only a husband may touch a wife. Then he

stopped abruptly and bid me to summon her. “Send for her,” he

repeated.

I knew better than to challenge him, especially in the face of

his rescue, which may have saved Sukeena’s life. “Very well,” I

said. “But leave my chambers for a time. Let me speak to her in

private. Grant me this favor, my only request. Return in thirty

minutes. You shall have what you wish.”

Sukeena arrived quite promptly—never one to dismiss a sum-

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mons from her mistress. I sat her down and spoke quite plainly of

the arrangements I had made to secure her release from jail and

torture. I informed her of my discovering of John’s viewing hallway,

and how I believed he watched every woman in this house

from similar vantage points. I had no doubt whatsoever that he’d

visited Sukeena in this regard for several years now.

“You ask me to do this thing for you, ma’am, you know I do.”

“You loathe him, I know, sweet friend.”

“He bad man, Miss. Not bad in soul, but bad in action. Bad

for the children, bad for you, Miss Ellen.”

“We must do this thing,” I bid her. “We must grant him this

whenever he asks, and he has asked for to-night to help rid him

of the haunting that results from the loss of sweet April.”

“You ask me do dis, I do dis.”

I kissed her, kissed her on the lips long and tenderly. “I had

hoped nothing might ever spoil our privacy, dear friend.” Her

eyes burned into mine and I felt her displeasure with me—perhaps

she would rather have died in jail than take to bed with my

husband. I didn’t blame her for this.

“This one night, he never forget,” she said. “Sukeena make

sure of that.”

“It’s a night none of us shall forget,” I said.

“Oh, no,” she contradicted. “Me, ma’am? I forget this before

I return to my own room.” And she smiled.

When Sukeena smiled—missing teeth and all—the whole room

grew brighter. She slipped out of her robe and nightdress and

stood before me naked, a powerful and wildly attractive female

form. “Take off the nightie, miss.” She stepped forward and

helped me out of my nightgown. “You say he coming,” she said.

“Then we give him an eyeful.” With that, she took my hand and

led me toward my bed.

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editor’s note: as arbiter of these entries, after

much discussion with my publisher, it was decided

that the speciFIc references (1 april 1917) were far

too graphic and disturbing to be printed here,

where readers more interested in the history of

rose red should not be made to be burdened with

the personal exploits (and exploitation!) of the

author. we have, as a concession, made this, and (a

few) other excerpts available on the world wide

web at the following address: www.beaumontuniversity.

net. users familiar with the web will note

there is no “link” to these excerpts from any of the

web-published pages. you must therefore type in the

url given here (exactly as it is written) in order to

reach this private library of ellen’s most personal

moments. a further warning: some of the content

therein is explicitly sexual, and is not intended for

persons under the age of eighteen.

in point of fact, ellen rimbauer apparently

became obsessed with recounting her nearly

nightly bedroom activities over the next several

months, writing almost exclusively about her husband’s

increased addiction to these events and the

elaborate acts he conceived for both his wife and

his wife’s best friend and servant. there are virtually

no entries other than these (often repugnant

and degrading) until early in 1918, an editorial

time jump i readily make in order to spare you, the

reader, the sordid descriptions of the debauchery

to which john rimbauer stooped. the only element

you lose because of my red pencil is the growing

frustration on the part of ellen and sukeena at

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being used in this way, to have what was once a pure

love between them corrupted and poisoned by a man

who could no longer FInd any satisfaction in life.

even physical pleasure now robbed him of any victory

over the senses. he was consumed in grief, he

felt himself a failure, and the deeper he sank, the

more bizarre his requests, the more desperate the

two women become. (there is even an account of a

late night spent in the barn!) by the time we join

back up with ellen in the pages to come, there have

been hints of a conspiracy FIrst forming, and then

growing, between the mistress of the house and her

maid. ellen will not allow the speciFIcs of this conspiracy

to reach her pages, for fear of her diary’s

discovery, but it is quite evident that john rimbauer

is the target and that plans have already

formed to set into motion john rimbauer’s demise.

—joyce reardon

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9 march 1918—rose red

To look back at the entries herein, it is quite obvious to me how

nothing has affected me quite so much as the late-night encounters

with John and the disturbing nature of his demands upon the

women of this house. The events of this day ?nally are cause for

re?ection on the larger nature of the problems with Rose Red

and her apparent need of “fuel,” both in terms of her physical

expansion (her continued construction) and whatever spiritual

needs she has.

To-day, she killed again.

The coroner will put the death of George Meader down as an

allergic reaction to a bee sting. But that bee sting came inside the

Health Room [Editor’s note: Health Room = Ellen’s term for the

Solarium, post 1917] and that room did burst with color upon his

death, the same way it exploded with color on the tragic night of

April’s disappearance and Sukeena’s confrontation with the

policeman there.

Meader, a railroad executive who has stayed the week with us,

was a big drinker, and clearly a womanizer. He ?irted with many

of the staff and may have had relations with more than one. It was

the attention he paid poor Sukeena that may have led to his

untimely demise. More than once he cornered her. (For she tells

me everything that happens in this house.) More than once he

attempted to grope her. (Who knows if John had a part in any of

this? I cannot see John sharing stories of our “alliance,” our

triad, but I put little past the man.) For her part, Sukeena ?nally

arranged for George to meet her in the Health Room at the

stroke of midnight.

George appeared, quite drunk, but on time. Alerted to

Sukeena’s plans, I kept watch of the Health Room from above,

alert to any lights coming on in various hallways or the Kitchen.

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If I saw any such activity, I was to switch the lights of my room

repeatedly. Sukeena would be able to see my chamber’s windows

from inside the Health Room.

All went according to plan.

George showed up in the Health Room, and Sukeena immediately

began dancing in a most ?uid, provocative and suggestive

manner. Even distanced as I was, I felt the power of that dance.

No man could fail to respond to those hips, the loose-jointed

nature of her body as it expressed itself. I could see George

Meader reach for his collar (for the Health Room is considerably

warmer than the rest of the house, even without Sukeena dancing)

and attempt to unbutton it. He slipped off his coat—perhaps

at Sukeena’s instruction. Only moments after he had removed his

coat, Sukeena sank to the ?oor, her legs crossed, and apparently

set her mind to prayer, or whatever it is she does exactly. Barely

seconds passed before I saw George Meader swat his arm—the bee

had stung him, summoned, I remain convinced, by Sukeena’s

substantial meditative powers. Sukeena waited only brie?y for

George to sink to his knees. Then she slipped quietly into the

garden, and through the Pool House returned by the south stairs

to her rooms.

Meader died without so much as a sound. Upon his death, the

?rst blooms of red roses appeared, vines wandering and growing

and extending themselves before my eyes. Within minutes, I

could no longer see inside the Health Room, overgrown as it was

by the wandering vines.

Nothing was found of George Meader for several hours,

except that coat he had removed. Only the next day, as the vines

impossibly receded and returned to their previous state, was the

body found. (The ?esh was torn by thorns as if he’d been rolled

in a bed of roses.)

John instructed the stable boys to cart the body downtown,

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knowing I would refuse the police entrance into my home for

anything but outright murder, and even then only with the

proper documents.

Was it Rose or Sukeena who took George Meader from this

world? Does it matter any longer? I feel half crazy with it all.

(More than half, if you believe the staff.) I have nearly abandoned

my own suspicions of the Indian burial ground, and yet Indian

artifacts continue to surface in the house—and one, an earthen

ceramic bowl shaped as a beehive, did ?nd its way into the Health

Room, as I recall!

Perhaps the mysteries of this place will never be solved.

Perhaps some scientist will come along in future generations to

explain what I, sadly, cannot. Who’s to tell? One thing is for certain:

I will continue to build Rose Red until the day I die—or

until I myself am claimed—even with my own hands when necessary

(as I continue to construct the Tower). I will continue to

attempt to negotiate a longer life for myself that I might outlive

my husband—this I pray for more than anything. That I might

?nd my child still alive. (Adam is barely a part of my life, as John

will not allow him to return to this place—I know my son only

through letters, and these letters are less frequent each year.)

Another has died. I barely mourn the loss. Rose Red has her

needs. Sukeena and I must protect ourselves. Arthritis has found

my ?ngers, I am in excruciating pain, and I fear my entries here

in your pages, Dear Diary, shall be fewer and farther between.

What more is to be said? I live in a world, condemned. Made

into someone I am not by night, in my husband’s desperate

attempts to ?nd satisfaction, reduced to prayer and silence by day.

Sneaking off to build with my hands what this house demands of

me. “The Tower,” she whispers at night. My little April.

Soon, our reunion, as I have ordered the exterior of the

Tower to be built, my stairway nearing completion. A year or two

at most, I’m told, following on the heels of projects already

planned. A golden cherub has been ordered, cast in Italy by artisans

in Florence. This cherub will stand high atop Rose Red and

lord over our property. Perhaps over Rose Red herself.

Plans are taking shape. My daughter is coming home.

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editor’s note: although the subsequent lack of

diary entries is attributed to ellen rimbauer’s

arthritis, there is some evidence that this period

proved traumatic to her and that she suffered at

least one breakdown. with the doctor’s recommendation

she attend “a clinic” (see 16 november 1921)

in switzerland, ellen rimbauer refused to leave

rose red and her beloved sukeena. recently recovered